Imloth Melui
by The Power of The Book
Summary: Ioreth recalls on her deathbed, and others remember how the healer touched their lives. A bit of a reflection on love.


**Imloth Melui**

Standard Disclaimer: Tolkien's World and Tolkien's Creations. Not mine. Wish I could visit.

It is to be certain, young one, that the unwritten duties of a wise-woman in the Houses of Healing include having the most confounding and complicated questions put to her.

An interesting thought, that. I must remember to write that down...along with a few other tidbits for she who succeeds me. Perhaps once I've answered your question, you'd be so kind as to be my scribe for a time? Thank you, my lad.

In any case, I was in the main Infirmary, scrubbing out the floors with that young lass Bretta, after I had excused the others from having to comb the hillsides for herbs efficacious in curing the change-of-season sniffles, it being so rainy. Comfrey and peppermint leaves have proven the most effective, probably owing to the powerful smells they emit that clear out the vapors afflicting the lungs, or at least that was what I was told...

As I was saying, it was a rainy spring day, and Bretta and I talked as we scrubbed, and I found myself talking less as I noticed that her young bones could scrub twice as fast as mine. It is a secret joy of mine, this, to listen to the babble of young girls and their problems. At such an age, I suppose, one thinks that the entire realm of Gondor rises and falls on upon the flicker of a lad's eye, or a friend's thoughtless remark. Yet one gains more experience and wisdom with age, or believes that they do, at the very least...

As to the girl's question, what was it...Ah, yes. Do you know that this pretty little maid asked, in a wistful tone that would make a dove weep, "Have you ever known true love?"

Have I ever known true love? My instinctual reply to such an impudent question from such a disrespectful young one would have been a scathing retort meant to shame the girl back into awareness of her sixteen years, and my seventy years. Seventy years is a long time to walk this realm and not know true love. Oh, don't chuckle like that, the lass is still alive.

Yet I must look at it from her perspective. Whereas I am looking back, she is looking forward, and those years must stretch before her like an endless road. An awful long time to walk alone...I must not reveal to her the true nature of Elvish folk. If she were to know our dear Queen Arwen had only found her heart's other half after nearly three thousand years, it would probably set the poor girl to tears of frustration. I seem to have a terrible habit of revealing secrets better kept, according to my kinswomen. Caira still laughs at my impasse at our beloved King Elessar's coronation. For days afterward, the popular jest at the Houses of Healing was that only trumpets could drown out the chatter of Ioreth the Loud and Wordy. 

What was I saying? Oh yes. To know true love...a fascinating concept. How would I begin? At the beginning, as love dictates. 

Too many young and dogmatic people tie love with the giving of flowers, the clasping of a hand, the bestowing of a nervous kiss, and love has so many different aspects...

What is anyone's first love? I suppose it would have to be the presence and touch of their parents...especially that of their mother. Why is it that the hundreds of wounded boys and men I have tended to over the years cry out for their mothers as unfathomable pain assaults them from all quarters? Ai!, but it tears my heart to remember their voices, high, quailing, calling out for the first woman they ever loved. 

My own mother...I can remember her hands, soft as cotton, smooth as glass - but when nightmares assailed me they became the hands of a warrior, asserting their victory over wispy hobgoblins with a soothing touch to my brow. Those hands...they always smelt of flour, or freshly turned earth from our gardens outside, a wholesome smell. Papa had been a farmer, but pressed into service to help when Ithilien was abandoned, and the orcs razed our little villages in nightly terrors. I was only a year old when he left to help defend Ithilien and never returned. Do I love him? Indeed I do, for even though I would be telling foolish tales if I claimed to remember him, I love the legacy that he has left. A simple but noble farmer, leaving the wife and child that he loved, and the beauty and familiarity of the flower-filled town of Imloth Melui. In my mind, he is nobility itself, and for that, I love him. Mother said, later on, that he died defending an injured friend on the battlefield, bravely fighting on to the last. Who this friend was and if he even existed, I do not know. I do not want to know, for I am content with the image of my black-haired Father, who sacrificed himself for the good of Gondor, so that his people and his family might know peace and security. Even if it is not true, what he was willing to do is proof enough for me of his undying love for his nation and people, and that is true love. My love for him is likewise true.

My, but that was a long speech, wasn't it? It's not finished though, so if you would be kind enough to help me drink a bit of water...Ah, bless you, son. 'Tis often said that my tongue must be drier than Harad, I chatter so. 

Where was I? Childhood, you say? Ah, yes, the blinding flash of bright colors and high laughter that fills one's heart with its lightness. Many remark that youths are silly, untried, and untrue, but as I've often said to my sisters, how can you be anything but, when all you have known is that idyllic world? I remember that you were not so, but then - ah, my little lad, no child should have to go through what you went through. My heart bled for you and your brother.

Ah, bright youth...Mother and I spent most of my youth out in the gardens, she teaching me the herbs that cured, those that eased suffering, those that were pleasant to nose and eyes. I was only eight, and colorful flowers often appealed to me - so different than the traditional white roses that were the trademark of my home. I can...I can recall saying to my mother one day that I did not understand why we bothered growing the herbs and shyer flowers of our gardens, when the ladies of the town tended gardens with gaily colored roses and other flowers. She pulled up a small plant, and showed it to me. Kingsfoil, she called it, and let me smell its crushed leaves, telling me that in the hands of a King, it would wield great powers, and was thus more valuable than the fairest flower in Imloth Melui. I, of course, was more interested in the idea of a King, than in the kingsfoil itself. I asked Mother if we would ever have a King again, and she smiled and said that if all the people of Gondor loved the heir to the Crown with all their hearts, he would return to us. From that day, she set me to learning lore, making me recite it for her while she baked bread and chopped the vegetables for our dinner. 

So I came out of childhood, a young maid with black shining hair and rosy lips, the legacy of my father. I don't wish to sound proud, my boy, but when I was young, I was quite the comely lass, a far cry from the wrinkled hag I am today. No, don't try and reassure me, my dear boy. Your words are kind, but I still have the use of my tired old eyes, and a mirror in which to stare into. I know what I am.

I also know what I was. And the boy to capture my heart when I was but a young lass was as handsome to me in my heart, as I daresay you are to your own wife. Yes, has she ever told you that you are quite charming when you blush?

I don't suppose you would remember him, but Threlmil was my husband, and if I thought I had known love before, I had in truth only known the oak seedling. In his presence, I saw the full-grown oak tree, if you get my meaning, my lad? I saw in him the chance to have the love of a wife for a husband and the love of a mother for her children. Ai, how I loved that man! Did I ever tell you how I met him?

Mother and I grew herbs and vegetables to sell in Imloth Melui for our daily bread. I was taking a basketful of...was it coriander?...ah, never mind that, what happened was that he succeeded in accidentally tripping into me, sending me face-first into the mud, along with my herbs, which were crushed under the basket. While I was trying to spit out the mud, I could hear him stammering behind me, trying to help me up, fetching a cloth to get the mud out of my eyes. All the time, my dear boy, all the time, he was apologizing and begging my pardon, and attempting to pay for the ruined herbs. I finally got the mud out of my eyes, and the first thing that I saw was his eye. Yes, my son, he was blind in one eye - some awful lye got into his eye as a child and he lost the sight in one eye. But from that one eye, he could pierce my very spirit with a glance. The only other two people I've seen able to do that are the King Elessar, and you, lad, when you're in a black mood. You had that ability, even when you were a boy, to fix me with that gaze. It was how I knew how to punish the right brother when the two of you were quarrelling as boys. If he'd been the one to make mischief, you'd stare at me like that trying to make me believe you. If you'd been making trouble - more often than not, lad - you couldn't even meet my eyes.

Ah, but I'm drifting again, and I've not answered your question, or Bretta's. When he looked into my eyes, I felt as if a cool wind had touched me, but not unkindly. Like sitting at the top of the Tower of Ecthelion in the dead of summer, and finally having the air stir about you. He looked long into my eyes, and finally recovered from his embarrassment enough to walk me home. I remember he kept looking my way when he thought I was staring at the fields away from him. I, of course, was thoroughly vexed, and to all of his awkward questions, I merely grunted. He finally hung his head and said nothing. I am glad your wife was kinder to you in your courtship than I was to my husband. 

I said good-day to him, and went to wash up. When I returned, he was there, but somewhere between my dismissal of him, and my returning to the front gate, he had acquired enough money to pay for the damages. I got rather flustered, I suppose. He did embarrass me, after all! It quickly dissolved into an argument - the first of many, now that I think on it. I told him it was only an accident, he argued back that it was his accident, and thus his responsibility to correct. I told him I wasn't taking his money, he told me that he was giving it to me, whether I wanted them or not. He pushed the coins in my hand, I slipped them into his coat pocket. I remember that his one eye could turn from blue to black when he grew angry, and that was the first time I noticed it, when he threw the coins to the ground at what must have been my fifteenth refusal. He told me 'I am leaving the money here. Whether you choose to take it, my lady, it is now your decision.' So I picked up the coins with him watching, and carefully placed them outside our gate. He said nothing at this, merely wished me good-day, and turned to go out the gate. I saw him cover the coins with a rock on his way out.

Every day, for at least a week afterward, he would check the rock. I watched him as I worked in the garden, and he never saw me. It always made me giggle to see him frown when the coins remained there. Finally, he took the coins back one day, and I couldn't say that I wasn't a little disappointed that he would no longer be coming by. The next day, he arrived at my house, bearing a handful of white roses, and I would be lying if I said I didn't blush like a common maiden. But I consented to walk with him, and I think it was then that our true courtship began, and I finally realized, that though I had known the love of friends and family, the love between a man and woman is something entirely different, and quite exhilarating. Every time I spied him in town, my heart would start to race, just a bit, mind you, and my friends commented that I became markedly happier when he passed by. I loved how his eye would widen when he saw me at the end of a day, how that silly smile would light up his face. My love for Threlmil was like a warm ray of light that seemed to envelop me whenever I saw him...could you possibly hand me your handkerchief, my boy? Thank you.

I'm sorry, my lad, give me a moment. This needs to be said, and I've got to say it, I've never spoken of it to anyone else.

Oh, my dear boy, don't protest. I know that I'm dying. There's no way around simple old age and wearing out, otherwise our dear King Elessar would have used it years ago. No, I am simply extremely grateful to the Valar that they have timed it so that you could be here with me. Think of it! You are often off in your own lands now - how was it so precisely timed so that you were here the day that I fell? Take comfort in this, my dear. Even nearness of death itself could not slow the tongue of Ioreth.

I must finish...where was I? Ah yes, when we married. I was to accompany him to Minas Tirith where he was a carpenter - he'd only been ending his apprenticeship in Imloth Melui. I parted from my mother, bitter it was, though we exchanged letters and tokens till she died. Such is the love of a parent and child...and I know it well. But Threlmil and I wed in Imloth Melui in the high summer months. I remember Mother weaving white roses and aromatic kingsfoil into my hair. I remember that as she was weaving the last flower into my hair, when she stopped, and held the rose up for me to see. I cannot remember her exact words, but they followed along these lines. 'Look at it, Ioreth,' she said, ' See the stem? There is the smooth, steady stem, and there are the ugly, rough thorns. Yet both unite to support the beautiful blossom on top. So too you will find marriage. There are the good days - like the smooth stem. There are the bad days - like the sharp thorns. But what have I taught you about gardening? The stem would cease to exist without the protection of the thorns, and the thorns would have no support without the stem. You and Threlmil will have to learn the correct balance of stem and thorn to live happily together.'

I suppose I grew a bit worried at this. I asked her something like, 'How will I know if I have the right balance?'

She told me, she told me with that knowing smile, ' My silly Ioreth. A rose without thorns is quickly eaten and destroyed, and a rose supported only by thorns cannot even exist. The blossom, my dear is the love that the two of you share. If the two of your are one day forced to beg on the streets, the love you have will make a good day for the two of you. If you argue with one another, the love you have for one another will help you to work through the angry words.' A good lesson, my dear boy, to take with you into your marriage. I never had children of my womb to pass it on to, and it is a lesson that should not be wasted. But then, you already know the highs and lows of marriage with your lady, don't you?

Ah, children. That was the one sorrow in my marriage with Threlmil. We were married for five wonderful years, and during that time, if it had been possible for me to will myself with child, it would have happened. Threlmil often assured me that he loved me, with or without children. And I still believe the truth of those words, yet I know that he wished for children. Such a heart as his needed children to receive the overflow of love that came from him. And perhaps, we would have had children eventually. But since my days were not to be immediately spent bearing and raising a brood, one of our neighbors introduced me to the sisters in the Houses of Healing. My training in the healing arts began. I remember that Threlmil asked me one night why I chose healing as my calling. I teased him at first, telling him I needed to learn how to take care of all the hurts a clumsy oaf such as him would sustain. But the real truth that I admitted to him, was that I loved the people of Gondor, would do anything to keep them alive and whole. The healing arts seemed to me an extension of that loyalty, love embodied in a physical action. To be part of the instrument that relieves suffering, that eases pain...ai, my boy, do you know what a joy that is?

In the end, I discovered that one love could not sustain and support another. Threlmil...he and his fellow craftsmen had gone to the edges of Ithilien to inspect the cedar woods...they were ambushed by an Easterling band...his blind side was his downfall...ai, ai, but I cannot recount to you his wounds. I cannot remember much of his memorial...my grief nearly felled me...I do not wish to speak of those terrible days. Hot on the heels of this sorrow came word to me from an aunt in Imloth Melui that my mother had passed, peacefully in her sleep. Violent death and peaceful death, it mattered not to me, the two I cared for and loved most in the world were gone, and I was alone. I made it clear that I would not remarry, my love for Threlmil was too penetrating, too intense, for the hole that he left to be filled by another. I remained in Minas Tirith, for I knew that I was needed in the Houses of Healing. Yet the work no longer held meaning for me, no longer was performed out of love, but out of routine, and a need to occupy my head with thoughts other than those of Threlmil and Mother...a drink of water, my lad?

Thank you.

For nearly ten years, I lived in this loveless manner. I occasionally wrote to my kin in Imloth Melui, acted normally around my friends, the sisters of the Houses of Healing. Yet I was empty inside. 

You changed that, my boy. You and your brother. I most certainly feel that it was a terrible thing that your mother died so young, and you hardly knew her, yet I am glad that we met. You and your brother, creeping into the Houses of Healing that afternoon. You and your brother had been attempting to climb that stone wall that surrounded the memorial gardens of the Steward's family. I know your father did not mean to shut you out with the locked gates, he merely did as I had done when mourning my Threlmil...pushed aside everything that might remind him of her, save the two of you. But he did not think that his sons might want to visit their mother's grave...oh, my dear boy, I know this is hard...shall I stop?...Are you certain?...All right, then.

Your brother, oh, when you slipped on the mossy rock and hit your head, he picked you up in his arms - such a strong lad he was, at the mere age of ten years! - and brought you here. I remember the look in his eyes, absolute terror at the thought of losing his little brother. Even though I reassured him that it was only a small bump on the head and a few scrapes, he was so worried! Ah, there's another aspect of love for you, brotherly love. And as I saw the love in his eyes, and the love and trust in yours, I knew that my years of darkness were over. I found hope and love again in the two sons of the Steward of Gondor.

If I could not have adopted the two of you in name, I surely did in heart, and I began to know a mother's love. The only regret I will ever have when I leave the circles of Arda soon, is that I had to discourage you from calling me mother. It brought tears of joy to my eyes to think you regarded me as such, but for propriety's sake such things could not be. And, well, you know the rest, my boy. 

Remember the day the three of us slipped down to fish in the Anduin? Every time I think of the look on your brother's face change from pride to sourness as he saw your fish was bigger than his...I cannot help but laugh. You make almost the same expression - remember when he was pulled into the Anduin by the huge fish that snagged his line next? See...now you're laughing, too. 

Anyway, I then knew the joy of seeing the two of you grow up into the fine, strong men you became. I remember agonizing when you and your brother went away into battle. I had lost two of the most important men in my life to war, I was terrified of losing the next two. When the trumpets on the Tower sounded, telling me that at least one of you was coming home...oh, the joy! Fear, too, wondering if you had been brought home only to die as my sisters and I worked over you in the Houses of Healing. 

When the battles were fought on the Pellenor, I can safely say that I have never been so sad and afraid in my life. Your brother...gone, carried away to the sea...I felt as though my heart would cease to beat. You, on the edge of life...I cannot say for certain how long I wept. If you left me, I cannot say what I might have done. 

But then our blessed King Elessar happened to hear me muttering the lore my mother had taught me...and he saved you, saved your lady, saved that clever _Periannath_, Merry. Bless me, but I then knew another love - the love one had for a King! A King was supposed to be the safeguard of his people, and I witnessed with my very eyes his healing of the son of my heart. Someone must have told him how the two of you were like sons to me, so he later told me of your brother's death, of which I am grateful to hear, to know that he died in the manner in which he wished - honor.

While you were busy courting your lady in Minas Tirith after the Great Triumph, and the beginning of this Age, I was never idle. Those two scalawags from the Fellowship, the Dwarf-lord Gimli, son of Gloin, and the Elf-lord of Ithilien, Legolas, kept me exceedingly busy, and from the two of them, I learned the strangeness of love, the peculiarity of a brotherly love forged between members of two races who are supposed to detest the ground the other walks on. I suppose friendships formed in battle become strong, you'd know more about that than I.

In any case, I was attempting to start seeds of kingsfoil growing in the herb gardens. My joint-stiffness made it difficult to kneel and to rise, so I fell over, quite undignified, onto the stone path. As luck would have it, that pair came around the corner just then, arguing about something or other. Yet both were swift to help me to my feet and enquire about my health, to introduce and be introduced. Neither lacked courtesy in the least. Yet as Legolas insisted in escorting me to the shade to rest, I remember him saying to Gimli, ' Now see, Master Dwarf, this fine lady would have suffered less hurt if she had landed on soft grass and plants instead of hard, bare stone.'

Gimli seemed a bit piqued. He responded, 'Aye, Master Elf, but had there not been a garden to tend, she would not have fallen.' 

Legolas told him 'Your race confounds me in their logic.' Gimli threw his words back at him. So I told them both that, 'The logic of both your races confounds me! You, Master Elf, are convinced that a woman of Gondor is fragile. You, Master Dwarf, are convinced that a garden is harmful to me. Obviously, you are more mistaken about myself than you are about each other.' 

Instead of irk them, this seemed to please the two of them, and we spent the remainder of our time in Minas Tirith together, them telling me about the places and things that I'd never see, and I telling them of the stories of Gondor. I have friends and kinswomen, but never in my life have I had friends like them. Both were particularly interested in tales of you and your brother. That reminds me...do not cross the Dwarf or the Elf. They know about the mud-throwing story, and probably wouldn't mind telling the rest of Gondor...I am sorry, my boy...that pair is too charming for their own good. 

In any case...as I knew the love of friendship from those two, they became my escorts for the wedding of King Elessar and Queen Arwen...later, I asked Legolas to translate something for me. I did not know the language of the Elves, and the meaning behind _Imloth_ _Melui_ had been lost to its inhabitants. He told me...he told me with that charming grin on his face that Melui meant "beloved", and Imloth was similar to "Nimloth", the name of the tree which predicted the resurgence of the line of Isildur. It means "white blossoms" - so put it together and I was born in the town of Beloved White Blossoms!

_That is beautiful, but it still does not explain how you got here._

Oh, that. Well, you see, after Bretta left, I began thinking about Imloth Melui, and it occurred to me that the roses should have been blooming by now. So I stood on my toe-tips and tried to look out into the garden from the window by the Infirmary stairs. Joint-ail having claimed me, my foot-muscles cramped and I took a tumble down the stairs. But I would not end there. Such an undignified end for Ioreth the Loud and Wordy!

_But you will not end, Aunt Ioreth. Not yet!_

Ah, my little lad. I have seen too much of death and its heralds not to recognize the signs in myself. There is no need for reassurance. Do you know why, my lad? It is because I began my life surrounded by love, and I will now end it surrounded by your love. The answer to little Bretta's question? I should have told her that I have known nothing but love my entire life.

_Mother?_

Son of my heart. My son. My sweet Faramir.

***

Three nights later, Faramir stood in a garden beside the Steward's house, heedless of the chill that the unusually cold summer breeze bore. Finished with ruffling his light brown hair, the wind moved to bother the leaves of the hoary apple trees that lined either side of the enclosed graveyard. The monuments recognizing every family member in the House of Hurin. Each memorial stone gleamed with a pearly luminescence in the moonlight, from the weather-beaten curves of Hurin's stone, to the young and sharp edges of Denethor's memorial stone. But it was not over these, but rather a mound of recently turned earth that Faramir stood. Ioreth's kinswomen and sisters from the Houses of Healing had long since left, yet he remained.

The sight of her husband arrested Eowyn, pulling her dark blue mantle over her shoulders as she prepared to step out of the building that adjoined the garden. With tenderness in her eyes, she saw him kneel, and press a hand to the mound that was Ioreth's new-made grave. What his thoughts were, she could not discern, nor did she think she wanted to know. His face was drawn, muscles slack after three days of unfamiliar exercise. He had wept in her arms the night Ioreth had died, and strangely, Eowyn had not been repulsed by the thought of a man shedding tears before her. When she had leisure to think of it, she realized that only compassion had filled her, never disgust. While she could owe most of that change to Faramir's influence, Eowyn knew that it was also derived from Ioreth's steadying presence. 

Pulling her mantle about her, one hand clutching the silver stars at her throat, the other attempting to cover and protect the swell of the unborn babe, she padded quietly across the grass to her husband. Turning his head at her approach, he opened his arms, and she gladly sought his warmth, increasing the strength of their embrace. Feeling her draw closer into him, he held her all the more tightly, comforting and taking comfort in her presence. Remembering the babe, he eased his grip, but did not let her go.

"Cold, my love?" he asked with concern.

"Nay. I was told...Ioreth told me...that it is not unusual at this stage of bearing, to be a bit cold." She paused, then turned from him to gaze at the grave. "I owe her so much, Faramir. You convinced me to become a healer, but she gifted the knowledge. My hand was newly gentled, and she filled it with herbs."

She paused, then looked up at him in amusement. "Her greatest gift was you."

"Me?"

"Aye, in two ways. In the first way, she raised you, and though I know that your father was a good man, I am glad that you also had a mother figure to guide you. In that way, at least one of us will then know how a mother should raise her brood."

She chuckled with some bitterness and Faramir remembered, with a touch of guilt, that she had hardly known her mother before the poor lady died.

He took the opportunity to lay a hand on her swelling abdomen. "And the second?"

She grinned fully. "I had her full approval as wife to you. It is a difficult thing, thus, to gain the approval of one's mother-in-law, is it not?"

He felt something inside him shatter, and he chuckled brokenly. "Aye."

Sensing the change in her husband, Eowyn changed the subject. "How did you manage to allow her rest here? I had thought it was only for the family of the House of Hurin."

"That was true in the past. _I_ am Steward now, and can control such things to my liking. And I say that though the Lady Ioreth was unrelated to my line in blood, she was the mother that filled the hole in my heart from the loss of my mother, the Lady Finduilas." He gestured toward Finduilas's grave, then back at Ioreth's. "Not blood, but most certainly beloved family."

A grunt interrupted their reverie. At the gate were the Lord of the Glittering Caves and the Elven Lord of Ithilien, lifting a large, cloth-wrapped bundle between them. Legolas was bent over at a fairly ridiculous angle to accommodate the diminutive stature of his companion, but his face betrayed no annoyance. Gimli, to his credit, gave no sign of amusement, but then, under that beard, who could tell? 

Balanced upon the apparently weighty bundle were a few plants wrapped loosely in burlap. Faramir hurried to open the gate, and helped the two lords carry the bundle, murmuring his thanks to them. With reverence, the three moved to gently set down the bundle at the head of Ioreth's grave. Gimli and Legolas gave hushed greetings to the Lady of Ithilien, and she acknowledged them, mindful of the solemnity of the occasion. Gimli unstrapped a shovel from his back, and Legolas did the same. Without any prompting, they began digging a small trench at the head of the grave. Faramir moved to unwrap the largest plant, carefully stripping the burlap encasing it. With some difficulty, Eowyn knelt down to unwrap the smaller plants. As she peeled the burlap away, the fresh scent of kingsfoil greeted her senses. Realizing the meaning of this gesture, she caressed the leaves fondly, remembering the kindly woman who had unknowingly saved both herself and Faramir. Turning to look at her husband, she saw that he had unwrapped a rosebush and was turning it this way and that, examining the plant. 

"Legolas, I would never usually question your judgment, but is it..." 

The Elf paused in his digging. "It is. There is a partially opened blossom on the side facing away from you. And I am aware of and grateful for your trust in me." Seeing the loosening blossom of a white rose, Faramir gave a brief, thankful nod, and Legolas turned back to Gimli, who was comparing the width of the trench with the width of the cloth-covered bundle. Pulling two trowels from his cloak, Faramir handed one to Eowyn, and they began to plant kingsfoil on both sides of the grave. Watching the Dwarf and Elf from the corner of her eye, Eowyn saw their solemnity, a rare expression for them both, pulled out and worn only when great circumstance was upon them. The two worked in tandem, and Eowyn mused that it had been both their great friendship-love for one another and their lightness of spirit that had drawn Ioreth to them. Had there been such a merry bond between Faramir and his brother? 

Inadvertently, Eowyn's gaze fell on the space of wall that Faramir had shown her in their early days of courtship. He had told her the story of his and Boromir's attempt to scale the wall to visit their mother's grave, how they met Ioreth for the first time that day. That day, Eowyn knew that Faramir had been able to remember his brother, not with sadness at his death, but with joy in his life.

Seeing the path of her gaze, Faramir smiled at his wife. "The gate will now be left open on my orders, Eowyn. Not that that gives you leave to depart from me any time soon." he added, with a touch of worry. Eowyn's hand came to rest on the swell of her unborn child.

"I survived the slaying of the Witch-King, love. If I can do that, this should be no more difficult."

She paused. "I hope." She gave him a reassuring smile, trying to quash the sudden stab of fear in her belly. Or was that the cursed morning sickness? She thought she'd been over that by at least two or three months. Her hands, patting the earth around a planted kingsfoil bush, fell into a comfortable rhythm that did more to calm her nerves than to secure the small plant into the ground. A satisfied "There!" from Gimli confirmed success from her other companions. The white marble memorial stone - for that had been the cloth-wrapped bundle - was carved into the likeness of a white rose, and had been anchored in the ground to Gimli's satisfaction. The stone was at odds in likeness to the other memorial stones of men mounted on horseback, women with arms spread wide in sorrow. But then, the same could be said of Ioreth's likeness to those buried alongside her. 

Gaining her feet, Eowyn sighed as she surveyed their handiwork in this sorrowful task. Gimli and Legolas stood on either side of her, watching as Faramir soberly dug a hole slightly behind the stone, preparing the rosebush. As he spread the clumped roots, his gaze lingered on the white rosebud, and Eowyn was certain that he smiled. 

She stepped forward to read what had been etched onto the marble. Gimli cleared his throat, and began to recite in a rusty voice.

"Here lieth Ioreth, Wise-woman of Gondor, Wife to Threlmil, Mother to the sons of Denethor, and Healer to the people of Gondor. Healing and lore did she distribute to those in need, but love was given of her heart freely to all. Lady of Imloth Melui."

Eyes clouded in immortal grief, Legolas sighed, then spoke. "When I was first befriended by mortals, one thing astounded and still astounds me - their capacity for generous love. Were it I, I might have been too frightened of losing those I loved as soon as I met them - but Ioreth showed herself to be one of the most loving Children of Illuvatar."

"Her grace and generosity were such that the Lady Galadriel would have found her glad company. I can give no higher praise than that." Gimli spoke simply, and Eowyn could have sworn his beard was quivering.

"Yet if you had, she probably would not have accepted it. Modest as a dove was she in all that she accomplished. And her accomplishments entail the lives of many of the people of Gondor, and mine, my husband's and Merry's as well. She helped turn a shieldmaiden into healer." Eowyn said, remembering the wise-woman guiding her through case after case of herbs to learn the uses of.

Faramir gave the soil around the rosebush a final pat, consigning both life and death to the earth. His task complete, he slowly stood, looking long at the grave of his beloved adopted mother. "She took two frightened young boys and gave them the maternal guidance they needed to become the men they did. My mother Finduilas gave us life," he said, gesturing to Finduilas's grave, "But my mother Ioreth gave us hope and guidance. She is as much my mother as is Finduilas. Here may her mortal remains rest." He stood silent beside Legolas for a time, until Gimli began attempting to unobtrusively gather up the burlap and the shovels. With whispered good-nights, Legolas and Gimli took their leave of the impromptu wake, walking through a gate that would no longer be closed. Taking Eowyn's arm, Faramir turned and led her back to the Steward's quarters. 

Before he walked in after Eowyn, he stopped and looked back at his sires and family of old. If a graveyard could be described as happy, it was a fitting description for the scene. The spirits were released beyond the circles of Arda, the memorials erected to comfort the living. 

"Good night, Mothers, Father, Brother." he whispered to the night, before turning to follow his wife to bed.

As dusk turned to dawn, and the rising sun painted the White City dazzling shades in its brilliance, anyone who cared to look inside the open gates of the Steward's memorial garden would have discovered that Nimloth did not bear the only white blossoms in Minas Tirith.


End file.
